The Daughters Of Alta Mira (Quill Gordon Mystery Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  “Makes sense. Then my second question is, when I was on Bob’s show last Friday, he had a note pad in front of him that he wrote things down on. I thought I saw one on his desk when we looked in today, but it happened pretty fast. Did you find one?”

  “I’d like to see it, too,” said Brinkley.

  “All right.” Chris left the room for a moment and returned with a baggie holding a five-by-eight note pad. She set it face up on the desk between the prosecutor and Gordon. There was a drop of blood in the upper right corner and a list of five items that read:

  SBYM - TW

  Time - :30

  Geiser - Wed

  DS - Gurgle

  Wheaties

  “Looks like messages in his own shorthand and the beginning of a grocery list,” Diane finally said. “I don’t see that it gets us anywhere.”

  “Isn’t the football coach named Geiser?” Gordon asked.

  “Lloyd Geiser,” Chris said.

  “Then that probably means he was going to ask Geiser to be a guest on his show on Wednesday.”

  “Good deduction, Sherlock,” Diane said, “but I still don’t see that it gets us anywhere. Anything else make sense to you?”

  Gordon squinted at the paper. “No,” he finally said, “but would it be all right if I copied this down so I could think about it later?”

  The women looked at each other. Diane nodded ever so slightly.

  “All right,” Chris said, “but only on the condition that you don’t share it with anyone else and if you have a brain flash about it, you’ll call me directly.”

  “Understood.” He took a small notebook from his shirt pocket and copied the list on to it. As soon as he had finished, Chris pulled the baggie toward her and turned it over.

  “One last question, then, and I’ll go,” Gordon said. “Bob told me Saturday night that he kept a gun in his desk drawer for self-defense. Is that what he was shot with?”

  “So that’s what it was for,” said Chris. “No, it was in the drawer untouched and unfired.”

  “So having it there didn’t do him any good.”

  “It almost never does. Don’t get me started on guns for self defense. Yeah, occasionally someone gets lucky and uses one that way, but there’s a good reason it hardly ever happens.”

  “You’re not going to say that in your campaign,” Diane said.

  “I’m not stupid, Diane. Look, people have the right to buy a gun for self-defense, and if they do, God bless ‘em and good luck to ‘em. Good luck because it almost never helps. The critical problem with having a gun for self defense is that it does you no good unless the criminal is dumb enough to let you get to it. Now criminals are dumb, God bless ‘em. If they weren’t we wouldn’t catch ‘em. But not many are that dumb. Bob’s killer sure wasn’t, and it looks like Bob never had a chance.”

  IT WAS STARTING TO RAIN as we drove onto the campus of Homestead Community College. It was a slow drizzle of a rain — the kind that, when you’re fishing, you figure you can work through. That is, until the steady accumulation of all those small drops begins to form bigger drops that roll off the back of your hat brim and trickle down the back of your shirt. It was cold, too. The clock on the bank as we left town said 50 degrees, but when we found the English building and got out of the car, it felt ten degrees colder.

  Gordon decided to make a run for it without a hat, but I was more circumspect, putting a cap over my thinning hair before jogging across the parking lot to the building. There was a staircase just inside the door when we entered, and we took it to the second floor, where we quickly found Room 247. My watch said 3:35, which made us five minutes fashionably late.

  Not that it mattered. Elizabeth Macondray’s door was open, and she was inside with a female student, working the kid through the problems with the paper she’d turned in. Gordon and I sat down on a bench near the door, out of sight.

  There wasn’t much to do but eavesdrop on the discussion, so of course I did. Within a few minutes, it became obvious that, even though office hours had ended, the student wasn’t going away any time soon. I started to get irritated about having my time wasted, but as the minutes dragged on like hours, with nothing to do but keep eavesdropping, I found myself having a change of heart.

  As I listened to the conversation between Elizabeth and Karen (the student), it became obvious that I was hearing something special. Some real teaching and learning was going on in that tiny office. I’m no writer —anything more than a simple business memo is a challenge for me — but even so, I could tell, as Elizabeth dissected Karen’s paper sentence by sentence, that she had an eye for the problems and was communicating them effectively. And since I’m pretty sure she wasn’t getting paid overtime, she was showing a professional dedication and competence that had to be respected.

  Gordon, meanwhile, was sitting silently with his hands folded over his stomach, head back and eyes closed. I call it his meditating Buddha look, and it seems to drive women wild. They think it’s mysterious and profound, when most of the time he’s just taking a catnap.

  Finally at 4:25, Karen left the office, and I wondered if she appreciated the value of the attention she just got. Elizabeth looked tired as she invited us in.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I lost track of the time. It happens sometimes when a student really needs help.”

  “That’s all right,” Gordon said.

  She looked at us cautiously.

  “Do they have any leads on who shot Bob?” she finally said.

  “It sounds as if they have nothing,” Gordon said.

  “Did you hear what he said before he went off the air?”

  “On the car radio as we were heading out of town.”

  “I heard it driving to the college. What was your take on it?”

  “I was upset. I thought he was being a show-off and maybe putting himself in danger.”

  “No, what was your take on what it meant?”

  Gordon looked puzzled. “Well, I figured he had a lead on Jessica’s killer, of course.”

  She said nothing for a moment, then very softly, “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “What else could it be?”

  “You’re forgetting, Sam, that there are two crimes being investigated here: the disappearing students and the rape of Alicia. I think Bob had something in the rape case.”

  What makes you say so?”

  “You’ve known Bob longer than I have, so let me run this by you. I don’t think Bob would know where to begin in the serial killer case. The mentality of that sort of crime isn’t something he could wrap his head around. It’s too foreign to him. To almost anybody, really. Plus he’d arranged to meet with somebody before the body was found.

  “Alicia’s rape, on the other hand, really bothered him in a personal way. He has daughters and he could imagine something like that happening to them. And he and I were working on it together. Plus there was his remark about getting information from a babe. My guess is that he got one of the girls at the party to talk, or to think about talking. I’ll bet that’s who he was meeting on campus yesterday, when almost no one is around. It would be a discreet place for a delicate meeting.”

  “But who would it be? Everybody in town knew him, and even in a small town, that’s a big pool of possibilities.”

  “I know. I’m stumped. I was hoping he might have said something to you. That’s why I asked you here.”

  Several minutes of silence ensued, during which a thought crossed my mind. I wasn’t sure whether or not it was a good idea, but the quiet was getting to me, and I finally blurted it out.

  “He taught a class here, didn”t he? Maybe he was talking to one of the students in his class.”

  “That’s an inspired idea,” Sam, she said, and I have to admit I blushed. “A lot of high school students take an extra class at the college, and Bob’s was in the afternoon, when they can easily get out of school to get here.”

  “It’s a good beginning, anyway,
” Gordon said. “Is there any way to get a list of who’s in his class?”

  “I can get it from the registrar, but the office is almost closed. We may have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “It’s not closed tomorrow?”

  “What? Oh, Veterans Day. I forgot. Shit.” She opened a desk drawer and took out a spiral-bound campus directory, flipped quickly through the pages, picked up the phone and dialed a four-digit extension. It seemed like the phone was ringing a long time on the other end, and I was resigning myself to waiting until Wednesday to see if my idea would come to anything.

  “Zoe?” she said. “Elizabeth Macondray in English. I need to get a class list today. Is there any way you can do that for me? (Pause) Of course I know who’s in my class. It’s another one I need. Pretty please? (Pause) Thank you so much, Zoe. I owe you one. It’s Bob Hastings’ Fundamentals of Radio class for this quarter. I know you close in ten minutes. I can be there in seven. Bye.”

  She hung up. “Let’s go,” she said. “There’s not much time.” She grabbed her purse and a pile of student papers and headed out the door. We followed her out and down the stairs, where she stopped by the entrance to the building. The rain was falling even harder, and with the cloud cover, it was almost dark. The lights were on in the parking lot.

  “We may be onto something. Shall we keep it going? I’ve got three-quarters of a pan of leftover lasagna at home that’s even better the second day. Would you guys like to come over for dinner and go over the class list afterward?”

  “Sure,” Gordon said, without hesitation.

  “I don’t know,” I said after a brief pause. “We’re going fishing tomorrow and I need to tie some flies before then. I think I’ll pass and get the report from Gordon.”

  “All right,” she said. “My margin’s two minutes now. See you later.”

  “But I don’t know where you live,” Gordon said.

  “I’ll call with directions.”

  And with that, she took off, running gracefully across the parking lot. Gordon watched her until she rounded the corner of another building and was out of sight. He turned and gave me a funny look without saying anything.

  I’m guessing the funny look was because he knows I’ve never tied a trout fly in my life and always buy them at the shop.

  BEFORE HEADING OUT to Elizabeth’s place, Gordon stopped at Al’s Wine and Spirits on Chaparral Boulevard and selected a serviceable Napa Valley Cabernet to go with the lasagna. Judging from the layer of dust on the bottle, Al did a better trade in spirits than in wine, but he cheerfully wiped the bottle clean before bagging it.

  Once Gordon was out of town, the darkness and solitude of the highway became absolute. Her place, she had said, was on the Nuñes Ranch, a few miles past Homestead College. In that stretch of road, he counted three cars coming the other direction and had no one in front of or behind him the entire way. The rain took the form of sporadic light showers, and the roadway was wet, glistening in the bright headlights.

  Fortunately the ranch was marked with a large sign. Gordon turned right into a driveway and followed a gravel road flanked by white fences on either side for a quarter mile. He drove over a cattle guard, and shortly afterward the road forked. He could see the main ranch house to the right and a smaller outbuilding to the left. He took the left fork as directed and was soon at a wood building, painted white, with a Subaru Legacy station wagon, dark green, parked in front. He parked next to it and got out.

  The rain had stopped for a moment, and it was cold enough that he could see his breath. He smelled smoke from a wood fire and heard the sound of frogs croaking from wherever they were nearby. She welcomed him into the house, which was bright, warm and cheerful. A wood stove with a glass front burned in one corner, with two chairs and a small couch facing it. There was a full kitchen, with a round table that seated four. On the walls were several paintings and photographs in an eclectic range of styles. The photographs included black and white cityscapes, portraits, and full-color landscapes with the colors muted and subtle. The paintings ranged from abstract color jumbles to landscapes and portraits. All in all, the assemblage of art on the walls reflected a broad, open-minded aesthetic sense.

  “Nice place,” Gordon said.

  “It was a find.”

  He looked around, slightly puzzled.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked.

  “No, just that it looked bigger from the outside.”

  “That’s because you’re not seeing the studio. Over here.”

  She motioned him to the door on the wall to the left of the front entrance, and they went through it into a 15-by-20-foot space with a skylight. Several easels stood against one of the long walls, each with a canvas on it, covered by cloth.

  “My works in progress,” she said.

  “Can I get a sneak preview?”

  “No deal, Gordon. Asking an artist to show her work before it’s done is like asking a woman to drop her panties when you’ve known her only five minutes. You need to wait.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, I didn’t say never. I just said not now. Let’s open that bottle of wine you brought. Dinner should be ready in 15 minutes.”

  She served the lasagna with a salad and store-bought French bread, and it was a satisfying meal. They talked easily before and during it. She inquired gently about his family and work history, and he learned how she had ended up at Homestead College but really wanted to get back to Los Angeles or San Francisco. If she taught elementary or high school, she could have landed a job anywhere, but tenure-track community college positions were hard to find. When they had finished eating and cleaning the few dishes, she suggested they move over by the wood stove.

  “Would you like another glass of wine?”

  He shook his head. “I have to drive back.”

  “If you say so.”

  Elizabeth sat in one of the chairs, and he sat at the edge of the couch next to it. She was holding a manila file folder.

  “I barely got there in time to get the class list,” she said, “but I’m not sure if it was worth the soaking. Only a third of Bob’s class was female, and I don’t see any likely candidates for ‘the babe.’ You want to see?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked it over, running his forefinger down the list of names. Halfway through, he paused and tapped the paper, then kept going. When he finished, he moved his finger back to where it had previously stopped and stared at the page for several seconds before turning the sheet over on his lap.

  “Let me ask you a question,” he said. “When you first told me about this, you said Bob had been talking to ‘a babe.’ Just now, you said, ‘the babe.’ Are you sure Bob didn’t say ‘the babe,’ too?”

  “He might have, but why would it matter?”

  “We know Bob had a fondness for assigning silly names to people, right? Like Flyboy because I’m a fly fisherman. Well, there’s a name here that might go with the babe, but I’m not sure, and I’d have to look something up.” He got up and began pacing. “How could I find out at this time of night?” He paced for another half-minute. “My sister. It’s worth a try.”

  He took out his Nokia cell phone, scrolled to a number on the directory and dialed it.

  “Come on, Donna. Be there.”

  A woman’s voice answered after the third ring.

  “Donna, it’s me.”

  “What do you want, Gordon?”

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  “You never call unless you do.”

  “Come on, now. That’s not fair.” A long pause. “But I was wondering if you could look something up for me.”

  “Aha! All right, but tit for tat.”

  “What’s the tat?”

  “I’ll tell you later. What do you want me to look up?”

  “Remember that baseball encyclopedia you gave Steve a few years ago? The one that lists everybody who ever played in the Major Leagues? Can you look up a name for me?”

 
“Are you sure he’s in there?”

  “He’s in the Hall of Fame, so he’d better be.”

  “All right, hold on while I go fetch the book. I thought you were on a fishing trip now.”

  “I am.”

  “How’s the fishing?”

  “I haven’t been doing much the last couple of days.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “All right, here’s the book.”

  “The players are listed in alphabetical order, so it should be easy. Go to Harry Hooper.”

  “Just a minute.” He could hear the sound of pages turning. “Got it. What do you need?”

  “Just tell me which teams he played for and when?”

  “OK. It looks like he played for the Boston Red Sox from 1909 to 1921 — no, wait. 1920.”

  “That’s it. Thank you.”

  “Not so fast, Gordon. We haven’t got to tat yet.”

  “Whatever it is. I owe you one.”

  “Steve and I are trying to do a weekend getaway before Christmas, December fifth and sixth, and Aaron and Claudia need to be taken care of. I assume you’re free then. Or could arrange to be.”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Consider it done. We’ll make the reservations and I’ll let you know when you get back.”

  Gordon turned to Elizabeth after ending the call. “I might just have it.”

  “Harry Hooper,” she said. ‘That sounds familiar.”

  “He was a Hall of Fame shortstop for the Boston Red Sox, and more importantly, he played with them when they had another famous player on the roster. Babe Ruth. ‘The Babe.’ It’s the kind of quirky nickname Bob would have come up with, and given that a certain Harry Hooper of Alta Mira was both in Bob’s radio class and on the football team, I’d say he moves to the head of the list of people we might want to talk to.”

  THERE WAS A PHONE NUMBER for Hooper, and all the other students, on the class list. After some discussion, they decided that Elizabeth would call him in the morning and try to get him to campus for an interview Tuesday afternoon, when, owing to the holiday, few people would be around.

  They talked for another hour, touching on several subjects in a relaxed fashion. Gordon was enjoying the warmth and coziness of the place, especially when a squall hit from time to time, and they could hear the rain hitting the roof. Shortly after nine, he decided it was time to go. They walked to the door together, and just as he opened it, the rain began to fall again, heavily. They stood in the doorway together, feeling the warmth of the woodstove behind them and the moist coolness of the wind and the rain in front of them. The porch light was just bright enough for them to see the large drops falling, and they watched for a moment.